Dear Kids – I’m Tired Of Picking Up The Mess

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When you were small I was astounded by the fact that all of the tidying I did all day long could quickly come undone in a split second. The blocks went in the bin, and then the bin would be dumped across the floor.

But you were small, and so I forgave you for these atrocities and continued to assist you in picking up your toys.

But you see, now that you are older I’m afraid I’ve created two house destroying monsters. 

You have since grown, and so have your messes, but what hasn’t grown is your willingness to clean them up.

Those, easy to throw in a bin, blocks, are now mountains of Legos which promise to assault my bare feet if I even dare to enter the caves we call your rooms.

I’m horrified to find silly putty embedded on my pillows. I cry when you ask to make slime because I know that I, and only I, will pay a hefty price for allowing such creativity.

You are not toddlers anymore, and my sole responsibility is no longer just cleaning this house.

I have a job, which forces me to exert a lot of energy, and I do not wish to come home and spend my evenings cleaning up other people’s messes.

Your mess making triggers my anxiety, it makes me feel unappreciated and taken advantage of, and it’s just really getting old.

Because of this, you can consider this my resignation letter, because I am freaking over it.

I’m done chasing you around with a dustbuster. I’m so sick and tired of watching more of your sandwich end up on the floor than in your mouth. I hate that I have to beg you to put away the mountain of toys you chose to throw around all day.

I feel like I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place, because though I want to instill in you responsibility, I am also unwilling to live in a crumb-filled, littered, state of wretchedness.

We need to find a way for you to be able to take over your own cleaning duties, without forcing me to move out in the process.

You see, our current situation is as follows: You make the messes, I ask for them to be cleaned. You ignore me, the house starts to smell.

I scream until you begin to tidy, and then I am ultimately unsatisfied with your effort. I then rage clean while muttering profanities under my breath… There has to be a better way.

So here is my new proposition: Make a minimal mess, clean it up to my satisfaction.

See?! No yelling, no raging, no vacuuming up your Legos behind your back. It’s a win, win!

Seriously though, this momma is all done.

It is time for you to figure out that as members of this family, you have a part in keeping up our home.

If your sink is filled with gooey blue toothpaste, you rinse it out. If you spill something onto the floor, you pick it up and throw it out. Your dirty clothes have a designated place to go, and it’s not under your bed. You can do this.

I have been training you for years, and it is time now for you to put all of those lessons to good use. I believe in you. I know you know where the trash can lives.

With all of this being said, if anyone drives by my house and is worried about the wafting, offensive odor… I threw in the towel.

The kids are responsible for themselves now, and I’ve ordered myself a she shed to live in, which will be devoid of toys and crumbs… but there will be plenty of wine.

Ahhh. A girl can dream.

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